


Departure (The Morning Of)

by scratchedandinked



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: But still very sweet love in there, Emotional Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of stream of consciousness prose, M/M, NO actual death merely pondering the possibility of, angst pretty much the entire time, apocalypse (literally) now, brief blood mentions, canon isn't important or specific and went mostly for the emotions and Vibes, injury description, thanks to part two we have COMFORT in this house now, very very very tiny body horror (teeth)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:20:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scratchedandinked/pseuds/scratchedandinked
Summary: The morning Jon was meant to die, he made his bed.(a brief look at how Jon prepares in the morning for his last day on earth)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea for the first line and just ran with it! I didn't want to fuss too much over it and fixed it up into a polished but "raw materials" piece-- "happy" reading xo

The morning Jon was meant to die, he made his bed.

The first thing Jon did after getting up was tuck the pilling blankets back under his pillow, which he fluffed to match the empty one beside it. The other pillow, and entire other half of the bed, hadn’t been slept on. It became and remained cold and stiff. Jon could hear Martin in the kitchen. Over Martin’s pacing footsteps, Jon could hear him thinking even louder. Jon gave Martin privacy and crept across the hall to the bathroom.

Standing before the cracked, cold-only sink, Jon instinctively went to braid his hair. His hands swiped through empty air, suddenly remembering the long, damaged piles of hair on the tile floor weeks earlier. Jon ran his fingers over the choppy hairline at the nape of his neck, trying to grasp at something—something to change and prepare that morning. Jon had to settle for smoothing his hands over the close, uneven sides, making all the sprouting white and gray follow the same grain.

All in all, Jon just wanted to look presentable. He was less worried about existing in his last moments on Earth a disheveled man, but more so about being immortalized in any memories—the ones that would crop up days, weeks, years after that day—looking careless or distraught. Memories of today, of any day, were supposed to help heal, not haunt. Combing his hair was the least Jon could do for himself. For the man he could hear panicking in the other room, endless terror like rolling thunder through the floorboards and up Jon’s legs, nearly rattling his teeth.

Trying not to listen, Jon began washing his hands. One over the other, twisting right in left, then back again. It wasn’t a ritual—not if it didn’t help him any. The motion reminded him of being a boy, counting his washings before being able to sit down for dinner with his grandmother.

Looking into the mirror, Jon made sure to leave that unknowing child at the sink. The gray patches of hair placed the young boy back into the reflection. The round scars sprinkled on his face like dark, previously painful freckles made further work of it, too. The long, jagged, mouth-like scar along his neck was the final abandonment of the child Jon had been hoping to carry with him into happy, safe adulthood. Jon felt horrible leaving that confused orphan again, but he couldn’t bring him along. Jon couldn’t let him die like that.

Jon smiled at the mirror and tried to remember the younger iteration of his face; the one he used to fuss over before school dances, dates, and employee ID photos. Jon gave it—gave him—one last moment to live uninterrupted and unafraid.

Jon turned away and let the dead man, the Archivist, fill his place. This version of himself was far more familiar. Being human hadn’t felt good in years.

The day Jon was meant to die, he didn’t want to cry. Not in front of Martin. Jon made sure to fix his expression into one of pleasant grogginess: simply wandering out to the kitchen to see where his love had gone from bed. Stepping out of the hall and into the dim, early morning light of the kitchen, Jon found the front was useless. Martin wasn’t even looking at him.

Martin was sitting at their small dining table, a mug of tea beside him and another resting across the table at the other chair; both were cold. Martin had his hands clasped with his forehead resting against his laced fingers. Slowly stepping forward, Jon heard Martin praying to a God he no longer believed in – no longer believed could help or had any say in the suffering being delivered to Man. Jon heard his own name spoken between those of angels and saints like a cough in the middle of a song.

Interrupting felt ungrateful, but Jon didn’t want Martin to fester the guilt of asking— _begging_ — without ever receiving his miracle. Jon knew, of anyone, Martin deserved to be answered by God—whatever it was—but knew what very little could be done. Jon wanted Martin to hear it from him rather than the dejected silence of prayer.

Jon prepared to sit down—to stop Martin before the quiet could hurt him—and pulled out the other chair. Sitting on the seat was a small folded pile of clothes: two shirts for layering, a pair of heavy trousers, and a pair of knitted socks. Jon was about to laugh (or attempt the sensation) and ask Martin if _he’d washed his clothes for the Apocalypse_ when he stopped, splaying his fingers over the warm fabric. Of course Martin had. He wouldn’t let Jon walk into Hell in dirty socks. Wouldn’t let him fall to his knees, wounded and scrambling for life, in something already stained.

The day Jon was meant to die, the first thing he said to Martin was thank you. It was insufficient, it was quiet, but it was all Jon thought Martin could handle. He still hadn’t stopped praying.

Jon said his name again softly, practicing how he’d want to say it with his last, shallow breath. Jon remained standing as he waited for Martin’s very reluctant Amen: it was either a firm sign off and demand for a miracle, or the moment of giving up. Jon didn’t Ask; he let Martin know the answer all his own.

Martin had tried to cook for Jon, wanted him to go out into the depths full and warm, but had suddenly forgotten every recipe. Martin said he couldn’t remember the last time he slept—but Jon could name the exact moment.

It was after the last time they’d been together—four days ago—both oblivious to the reckoning that was throwing itself their way, eager to wrap its greedy hands around their small attempted happy Ending and strangle the rose-colored life from its body. Martin had fallen asleep in Jon’s arms. Jon wished he could do the same one last time, for the last time; fall into his eternal sleep with a comforting pair of arms to carry him off—to dream and to the grave.

Jon changed his clothes and drank the cold tea. There was very little he wanted to do but comply to every bit of routine presented to him. It was Jon’s last chance to do any of it. Even if it was ice cold, Jon wanted to feel the satisfaction of emptying a mug of tea. Jon would never come back, never be able to leave a pin in anything and return. He had to be deliberate, even in the ways he wanted to miss his life.

The sun was only just above the horizon when Jon gathered his shoes, coat, and bag. The house was silent, even the floorboards withholding their whining as Jon readied, walking the hallway as many times as he could, like he’d come out some other side spared.

Jon dressed the corpse while it was still breathing.

Standing by the front door—the outside world knocking but not begging for an invitation inside—Jon kissed Martin. He tried to make sure it wasn’t a goodbye.

Jon fought the urge to be frantic; to admit silently, and with the twitch of his lips against Martin’s, that he was trying to memorize them—memorize him. Jon’s hands held Martin’s face, nearly cradling him as if it’d help Jon carry the feeling back out into the woods. Martin was crying, but it wasn’t at all strange. Jon whispered to him that he didn’t need to be scared. This was for him. It was for them all.

The day Jon was meant to die, he wiped Martin’s cheeks and wondered what it would be like to die feeling the hot sting of frustrated tears on his fingers, rather than his own pooling blood. Jon found it to be a more hopeful thought than any involving bargaining or pleading or, god forbid, being taken alive.

Kissing Martin was the last moment that time truly left Jon. He couldn’t feel anything other than the firm, reluctant grip on his arms and Martin’s slow breathing—forced exhales to hold off hyperventilation—pressing his chest up against Jon’s.

He pretended, for a moment, it was the first time he’d ever kissed Martin. Not again, as in conjuring the memory, but an entirely new first: confused and thrilled and fumbling and very willing to try and try again.

Jon barely noticed he was telling Martin that he loved him until Martin was kissing it off his lips and telling him to stop saying it like he was sorry. Jon was, only partly because he knew how consumptive love was—and Jon had wanted their love to be infinite and expansive.

This was a limit. An End.

Jon brushed Martin’s hair back with his fingertips, still clutching his face, and said it again. Twice. Another ten times. Just until it didn’t sound like regret, like how he would’ve said it if he was simply going on a walk. As if he wasn’t leaving Martin’s pale, shaken face to be the last vision of him as he trudged alone to his welcomed and scheduled demise.

Every time Martin returned it to Jon, saying that he loved him—not loved him _too_ , but loved him separately, fully, non-complementary and entirely unbounded and inescapable—Jon was sure he’d break; his composure, his reserve, every bone in his body, just as his heart was.

Eventually, Jon patted Martin’s chest and announced he had to leave. He spoke to everything that was listening and watching.

Martin fixed the straps of Jon’s backpack and told him, with a stiff and painfully brave face, to be careful. To pick him a wildflower on the way back. To come back.

Placing his hand on the doorknob, Jon felt a quiet voice rise from the shortened life flickering before his eyes. It was softer than the last time he’d heard it, guiding and certain. Just for Jon, just between them:

_“The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one.”_

Jon could only hope that was true. If so, he would die very, very happy. And only a little alone, but at least not lonely.

Jon opened the door and stepped outside, ready for absolutely none of his final moments, despite trying to prepare:

Jon had kissed his Martin with a hidden goodbye; thought on his younger self—the entire life he was supposed to lead well into his old, wrinkled years; dressed up, as clean as one could be for an unfair fight; pretended to be brave, mostly for himself.

Jon had even made his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading-- if i need to write the sequel where jon walks back in the door alive, just let me know i have the figurative pen in my hand right now and tissue ready for martin. he's had a terrible day. (edit: oh there WILL be a ch 2)
> 
> also, find me on tumblr @asheardontape!


	2. Arrival Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin on the morning Jon is supposed to meet his End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't leave that last chapter like that, so here we are with a little more emotional Martin fretting and definitely *definitely* not trying to fight God.  
> The after-effects of uhhh surviving an Apocalypse are just little ideas I had that I don't entirely know how they would all Fold Into Canon but WHO cares we're here to have angst and fun, and a combination therein! let's go.

The day Jon was meant to die, Martin asked God for a favor.

Martin knew he was too bad of a catholic to call in any big ones—and was slightly worried that if he asked for too much, God would smite Jon to spite Martin, and his audacity to _request_ something after years of denial and silence.

Martin asked for God to let it be painless. What _it_ was couldn’t be uttered by his own lips, couldn’t sit in a fully strung together sentence. It had to remain a flash of red, the echo of a scream Martin never wanted to hear, the most terrifying kind of stillness.

It was so vivid in his mind Martin knew Jon could see it too. Knew what he was thinking about, even as he laid in the other room sleeping.

Martin prayed through the night, only getting up to pretend he could drink another cup of tea. He poured the over-steeped cup out and started another full kettle. It went like that until the sun was high enough to begin warming the poured water on the counter.

Martin couldn’t sleep when death was so alive.

He knew he should’ve been in the other room with Jon, being there for any sudden waves of panic or requests for physical comfort. Martin knew his feelings weren’t as important as Jon’s, not right now, but he couldn’t face them _and_ Jon at the same time. Sleeping next to him would only remind Martin that he was going to be missing it for the rest of his life.

Knowing it was his last time with Jon wouldn’t even help. It would’ve been easier if Jon was taken suddenly in the woods or in his sleep. Then at least Martin’s memories of holding Jon and resting his cheek on his shoulder as they clung together under the thin blankets would be full of content, rosy smiles. None were tainted with the knowledge of needing to savor the joy. If Martin didn’t know, all his memories would be clean and pure. Happy and untouched. Jon’s murderers wouldn’t have won.

That’s exactly what they were, as much as Jon told Martin to not think about it that way; not to try and compartmentalize the blame. It was too messy for either of them to attempt sense. It was violent for the sake of pleasure, and pleasure for the sake of destruction. But as Martin stood with Jon by the door, he could think of no other word. Who else was he sending Jon out to if not killers? Murderers and torturers? The exact people Martin had been taught God protected good people from.

And Jon _was_ a good man, a loved man. What more needed protecting on Earth?

Martin told Jon he loved him more than he knew he should’ve. It probably wasn’t helpful to hear exactly what you were leaving, moments before stepping away from it for the last time. But Martin couldn’t stop. He held Jon and clutched his jacket in his hands, pressing their bodies together carefully: their chests nearly sharing a heartbeat as they tried to catch their breath and sense of reality.

The day Jon was meant to die, Martin cried more than Jon did. He stopped only when Jon stepped out into the morning light like he was facing an inferno, about to walk through the blown-out windows and cutting himself on every jagged edge on his way to the roaring hearth.

Jon closed the door behind him and Martin stayed standing, prayer fragments on his lips but mouth so incredibly dry.

Martin asked again for God to make it painless. If God really must take Jon, the least he could do was make it happen in a flash; a blink of the Eye and everything still and cold, and Jon out of harm’s way finally. He would become harm’s way—and heaven could only _be_ so lucky.

Then of course, Martin prayed that Jon made it to heaven. Jon was a _good man_ , he reminded God. Martin was unsure how it could be that God didn’t know it, but the risk was far too great. He threatened the entire sky, down to the smallest curl of a cloud, that if they sent Jon to Hell—

Martin hoped whatever would earn Jon a place in hell kept him alive instead.

Jon could never become a monster, even if his humanity was gray and his physical form was more of a suggestion than a set of boundaries and limitations. The empathy in Jon was not learned but impulsive. He was a human regardless of the parameters.

Perhaps it wasn’t being mortal that kept people human; perhaps it was nothing they could do, but rather what was done to them. Something couldn’t really be all that terrible if it was loved, could it? All humans were loved, so maybe—just maybe—all things that were loved had the half chance at being human…

Martin loved Jon so much it was genuinely terrifying. Because Martin _couldn’t_ anymore. He was in love with someone that… wouldn’t love him back _anymore_. Martin had all this love crammed and packed and pouring out of him and he just had to hope it would collapse in on itself and disappear.

With a few kisses and repetition of the same phrase, Martin just had to be _out_ of love.

How had he let this happen? How did he just let Jon leave?

The day Jon was—

 _That day_ , Martin sat on the couch and remembered how it felt to be lonely. To know it wasn’t a passing moment of ache but a new state of being. An ache that would fade into normalcy, a slow degradation that would consume Martin all over again.

Martin listened for something—anything—to ring out from the distance to know that it was over. That he wasn’t just standing on the shore as he watched a boat sinking, simply waiting and watching. The chance to intervene would be taken from him the moment he heard a shot, a scream, an echo. Martin wanted it to be taken; his hands were chapped and bleeding. They needed to rest.

He needed to rest…

* * *

The day Jon was meant to die, he came home. Late.

The door slammed open—Martin’s long-awaited shot. Jon stood in the foyer, soaked head to toe: water, tears, blood, mud. He gripped the wall and tried to remain standing as he coughed up Martin’s name—and a few teeth. He spit them on the ground and looked up at Martin as he rushed to him, unsure if he was going to be able to hold a ghost. When Jon smiled—or maybe it was just a wince—Martin didn’t see any teeth missing.

Upon his return, his march back from the grave, Jon’s first words to Martin were: _Really, you should see the other guys_.

Martin wished he could’ve laughed, but he couldn’t muster it out of himself. There was only long, shaking breaths—and then very harsh hysterical sobs.

Jon felt smaller than when he’d left. Almost like a rag doll, and thrown around just as much. Martin wrapped Jon up in his arms and let his limbs hang, restless but liquid; his arms draped over Martin’s shoulders and his legs bent back behind him as Martin tried to walk him to the couch.

Jon just kept saying he was tired. He was fine, he was just tired. Martin searched him urgently for his injuries, knowing that if there was a cut deep enough somewhere, Jon’s exhaustion was about to become deadly delirium. As he pulled his jacket back, rolling up his sleeves and shirt, Martin found all of Jon’s cuts to be healed— _healing_. They were pink scars fusing sliced together and becoming blanched patches of skin.

Martin didn’t want to think that day was still the day Jon was supposed to— _had_ died—and he was just cradling the corpse, or some tangible ghost trying to find a place to rest for all of its eternal days. Martin didn’t want to think that he’d get no extra chances—but every chance to know what he’d done wrong until he, himself, died.

Sitting back on the couch, body in a heap, Jon started to laugh. It was every bit as horrifying and unnerving as any novel Martin had read had tried to describe. It sounded like a cough, like something was lodged in Jon’s throat. As if happiness had become a solid object trying to be ejected from his body. Eventually, Jon was able to get a coherent word out—only one.

 _You_.

It was just _you_ —just _Martin_ , presumably. Jon said it with a cough, with a chopped sigh, with a quivering lip, through a kiss to Martin’s hands still searching him. It didn’t seem to matter what the rest of the sentence, or the revelation, seemed to be; Martin was enough. He was a surprise all his own.

It was then, Martin supposed he should’ve thanked God. Someone had been listening to him. Someone had spared Jon despite all the terrible ways Martin deserved to be condemned. It was noted: Jon was good. A good _man_.

Finally, Jon managed the other parts of his sentences. _Alive. Here. Real_. He was in disbelief, looking like he could’ve been near tears if he wasn’t so exhausted. Martin still hadn’t sat down beside Jon and was kneeling on the floor, keeping Jon from sliding off the cushion and onto the floor in a limp, aching pile of fragmented words. Jon’s clothes were still soaked and he was staining every surface he came in contact with, but as he pulled Martin up and into his arms, nothing could’ve been less important.

Although muffled in Martin’s shoulder, Jon continued to speak. He changed languages a few times—something Martin was in no position to address as he clutched Jon’s shoulders, feeling them sturdy and _real_ in his hands—and seemed to try and explain where he had been. Even through the gibberish, it sounded like an apology. Jon was trying to rationalize why he had left Martin. Why _Jon_ had left _him_.

It should’ve been funny, ironic or _something_ , if Martin wasn’t so horrified that Jon thought he needed to explain the ways in which he had to leave and save the world. That was, of course, until it was very clear that Jon was trying to explain that Martin was more important _than_ the world he was saving.

Jon had been told Martin was dead. Out there, in the empty and the dark and the deadly, Jon had been told Martin was already slaughtered and on the floor of their kitchen crying out for help. A call that would never be answered, a call Jon had abandoned before he’d even started the fight. Jon had been lied to with the intent of killing his will to save a world without Martin. And then nothing had _ever_ been clearer to Jon.

As he spoke, Martin noticed Jon’s eyes had gone milky—they definitely hadn’t been when he returned… were they? He was looking at Martin squarely, but he was sure Jon wasn’t using the eyes Martin could see. It made it all the more touching when Jon closed his eyes as he pulled Martin’s lips to his own. It was purely for the sense of privacy, of safety from the overwhelming relief of being _home_. Martin did the same, but mostly to fight the sting of new tears.

God had saved the Archivist, and it seemed Jon was an after-thought. All positives seemed to be by accident, by some random insertion of a foreign will. Perhaps Jon himself.

As Martin kissed Jon, listening—even in the silence—to the way Jon ached in his arms. The way he wept at the careful hands of another man causing no harm. While he was gone, it seemed Jon had discovered new ways to suffer. And Martin wasn’t sure who to turn to in order to soothe it; his hands weren’t good enough. They’d failed at the most simple work: folding in prayer. What use were they to a man putting himself back together in front of Martin’s very own eyes.

Jon pushed Martin’s glasses up and into his hair, allowing his hands to fumble more generously with Martin’s face as he tried to See him more closely. To study what he could while his two eyes could still focus on his outline. Martin returned the favor, thinking maybe the only use his hands had in helping Jon was to remind him he was real, too. He wasn’t just a receiver of knowledge, a fact-checker of the real, a calibrated device to Bad Happening; Jon was real, and he was something that could be touched and felt and memorized and missed and grieved and _loved_.

Could Martin’s trembling hands really say _all that_?

Eventually, Jon spoke Martin’s name with an alarming surge of coherence and let Martin’s glasses drop back onto his nose. Martin noticed then Jon had lost his own—but weren’t exactly missed. Martin’s name was spoken again, Jon calling out to him. Martin wanted to do so much more for the tension curling in Jon’s voice than to just quiet reply that he was listening. Jon reiterated again, almost in a panic, that he was tired—but he didn’t want to sleep. Not without Martin. Not alone.

Martin stopped Jon, not letting him beg—or even think he had to ask.

Things were by no means over. Jon was alive, but that wasn’t a full victory. Just a relieving new reality to carry forward—and _keep_ a reality. Martin could see the way Jon’s eyes were slowly paling and becoming ghostly, swirling white lenses; could see the way the thick scars in his hands were twisting and recoiling into flushed, softer skin. Jon had spit up a few more teeth and coughed up what looked to be a clot. He was shedding some part of himself—maybe the human, maybe the Archivist, maybe the parts that God had wanted to protect.

Regardless, Jon was frantic for comfort as his entire world shrank away and became focused through one, all-knowing lens. Martin kissed Jon the way he would’ve if it was a lazy evening of easy statement reading as Jon gathered his strength and Martin made him tea, maybe something to eat. Martin kissed Jon with a firmness that stilled his trembling and worry that _this_ was the way he’d be taken from Martin: after the fact, and directly in front of Martin. Jon froze before exhaling heavily, grabbing onto Martin’s back and shifting his weight in order to be lifted. He was tired, and Martin wouldn’t let him experience the most draining exhaustion—perhaps healing—of his life in cold, isolated solitude.

Martin hoisted Jon up, half slung over his shoulder, and walked him back to where he started the day. The bed was neatly made: blankets tucked and folded, and pillows even and fluffed. As Martin laid Jon down on his side of the bed, he ran his fingers over the bed around him. He asked Martin why it was still made. Why it hadn’t been slept in.

Before Martin could answer, it occurred to him that Jon had made it that morning. He had prepared it _for_ Martin, for his return after sending Jon off, exhausted and hopefully in more complete pieces than shattered ones. Martin’s answer was found in grabbing Jon’s hands and placing them by his sides again. They didn’t have to worry anymore. They could rest.

The scarred burn on Jon’s hand felt like the skin was new; so soft it felt like Martin’s fingers had gone numb against it. There was something inhuman relaxing into the sheets of their bed, but not inhumane. Not repulsive and unloved. Jon was still human. Worthy. Saved.

As Martin laid down beside Jon, caused a shift and dip on the bed, Jon’s hands flew back out to check his surroundings. He touched Martin’s hands as if they were new too, lacing their fingers and wrapping their arms up as he clutched them to his chest. Martin could still feel a heartbeat.

In another apology, one that broke the blanketed silence of looming rest, Jon told Martin he failed his request that morning: he hadn’t found a wildflower on the walk back. Jon was nearly _embarrassed_ , swallowing slowly and thickly as he told Martin he hadn’t found any. Hadn’t seen any. That The Eye hadn’t _shown_ Jon any on the direct path home—one made stumbling and swearing.

Resting his cheek on Jon’s shoulder, Martin asked him what The Eye had shown him among the darkness; along the trees, the sky, the nothing, the carnage. What was it showing him then?

Splaying and smoothing Martin’s hands down on his chest, Jon sighed. The answer was simple, understood without any terrifying look at the Door behind Jon's eyes, no deep breath to prepare for any burst of water. No fear of drowning to appease a question.

Jon let his head lull to the side as he faced Martin’s voice. He spoke with a weak smile, the single word unbroken, but Jon crumbling with relief:

_You._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for coming back for ch 2. hope for everyone that wanted a sequel liked our time with martin!  
> -m


End file.
